


Your Endearing Letters

by lacedramblings



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, She Loves Me - Bock/Harnick/Masteroff, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Perfume, Possibly Unrequited Love, everybody's kinda friends here i guess, hungary???? maybe????, i am so so so sorry, i know youre out there, im so sorry that i didnt include the whole gang, natasha's kinda a brat at the beginning but it's what we deserve, still russian tho, the relationships r a bit wacko just focus on the unknowing lovebirds, the sonyakhov is gross but... necessary for this to work, this is a real mess tbh, this is for all u andreitasha shipprs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-06-26 10:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15661197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacedramblings/pseuds/lacedramblings
Summary: In 1934, a struggling parfumerie opens it's doors with the same charming melody everyday. Contained within it's delicate walls is a well functioning system of employees, managed by Mr. Andrei Bolkonsky, under the watchful eye of the shop owner. Then, with the help of a new employee, a lonely heart's club advertisment, some poor relationship choices and the wave of holiday season approaching, things get a bit... mixed up.





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!!! just a warning that i relied more heavily on the relationships established in she loves me rather than great comet/w&p. mostly it's to do with rostovs'- sonya isn't their cousin/part of the family (hence the last name change). also anatole and helene do not make large roles in this- a shame, really- but i thought given the kodaly/ilona aspect, it would be better to not have incest just. right there as you could imagine. anyways, enjoy! also a big shout out to @dolokhovthassassin on ig for supporting me and shit and ALSO MaplePaizley on here bc highkey without their work i probably wouldn't have written anything at all. i always appreciate comments/kudos <3

     27 Poplar street. Budapest, Hungary.

     Bezukhov always arrived first. 7:30 every morning with his newspaper propped open, somewhat shabby suit in it’s best working order. A good half an hour before Bilibin’s doors opened for the day, but a point of pride for him. He had a newly obtained wife to support, a fact he’d never let you forget if he could help it, even if he had always, and likely would always arrive at that time. A topic he spoke of so much not out of love perhaps, but more likely from the commodity of having a beautiful wife worth mentioning.

     Up next rolled Petya Rostov, an overexcitable teenage delivery boy on a barely stable bicycle, but forgiven on all accounts of such. Pierre winced when he wobbled to a stop, nearly taking out a box of peonies on the front window sill while trying to lean his bike against the storefront. Petya pretended not to notice with an enthusiastic “Good morning!” to make up for any blunders witnessed. Pierre returned the nicety, attempting to return to his morning paper, but to no avail against the unbound exuberance of a nineteen year old with too much coffee in him to be good for him.

     “Hey Bezukhov, how’s this?” Pierre looked up to see the boy struck in some ridiculous pose atop the steps, feigning elegance. With a chuckle, he set the paper down, turning to him with something of a smile. “A wonderful pose, but is all that really so needed?” Petya, with the unfatiguable energy of a child basking in the attention of an adult, leapt off of the stoop to stand beside in order to defend himself against this. “Well, I’m a delivery boy, aren’t I? When people see me, they see what Bilibin’s is like, so I think it’s important to show we’re a parfumerie with… with…” Clearly floundering for a word to fit the occasion, Pierre stepped in to save him from himself. “We’re stylish.” Saven, Petya grinned, snapping his fingers into a point at the man. “That’s it! With a quiet dignity, and we present ourselves nicely to society, and-” “How many people have you run over today?” Pierre did not relent to completely keep the delivery boy from embarrassment, but he was quick to answer. “Not one. I promise.” Bezukhov huffed, checking his pocket watch. “It’s still early.”

     A figure approached, down the road. Petya was easily distracted from Pierre’s sly comment by this, a knowing smile brightening his features. “There’s Ms. Alexandrovna.” Indeed it was, Sonya making her way down the street in a nice but slightly wrinkled dress, hair still a bit mussed as if she hadn’t time to do it this morning. In a more hushed tone, Petya continued: “She spent the night with Mr. Dolokhov last night.” “Again?” I see them on my bicycle- they kiss goodbye at the coffee shop, then she walks around the corner to make us think she’s been home.” Once he finished, both men shut their mouths, smiling pleasantly at their coworker as she arrived, wishing them a good morning. “Isn’t it just the most lovely day? It shouldn’t be spent counting out change- anybody mind if I take the day off?”

     They both obediently nodded their assent when the fourth arrival to their shop apparently changed her mind just like that- Fyodor Dolokhov, dressed smartly unlike Pierre’s unsightly suit and Petya’s boyish trousers. Anyone viewing the scene could easily detect each’s respected opinion of the man. Sonya, blushing and slightly posed against the store window, Petya, glowing as if he had been graced with the highest honor, and Bezukhov, grimacing in an attempt at a pleasant smile at someone he would rather not be pleasantly smiling at. Fedya gave a curt nod to the latter two, quickly affixing his attention to the former woman, a roguish smile curling onto his angular face. “What a lovely dress you have on today, Ms. Alexandrovna.” “Same one she had on yesterday, Mr. Dolokhov,” piped up the utterly unsubtle Petya, now widely ignored by everyone in earshot.

     “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Bolkonsky,” Pierre pointed out to the oblivious trio and the summer breeze, the man coming down the road towards them, just five minutes till opening. No sense in being too early for something that always starts the same time, he always said. Andrei clapped Pierre over the shoulder, shaking his hand warmly. To the rest, he offered a “Isn’t this a radiant day?” They all murmurd their agreement but Andrei pressed on, beaming up into the air “What a beautiful sky. Working today… a waste of holiday weather. Let’s all run away, leave Bilibin to himself, eh?” For that brief moment, it seemed all five of them were so easily swept into that fantasy, their shining ideas overlapping on top of each other’s into a great cacophony of hope, a enormous glittering bubble of hope rising with every word.

     “Imagine that- A shop with no clerks!”

     “Why not have a picnic in that little park-”

     “Pick up some champagne-”

     “Doze under a tree-”

     “Get a sun tan-”

     “It’s too nice a day-”

     “Hot hors d'oeuvres?”

     But it was Bezukhov to ground them back to reality once more, as he often did. With a solemn and disappointed face, he snapped his newspaper closed, pressing it into Andrei’s hand before standing. “Then we’ll all be out of a job.” Fyodor made a noise of disgusting in the back of his throat, but no one contested it. It was true, after all. Petya, his unfailing optimism rising to the occasion, started up again, saying, “If it cost that much to get a sun tan-” “-Then I’ll stay untanned,” cut in Pierre again, eyes disapproving. “Pale. But solvent,” spat Fedya, effectively cutting off any more protest from the boy. With a heavy sigh, the delivery boy went back beside his bicycle, the workers arranging themselves into something presentable as Bilibin himself arrived to open up shop. Gruff and somewhat aged, he turned after unlocking the door, seeing his employees still taking in the end of their fresh air until that evening. “Get a move on, won’t you? We have a shop to run, after all.”

     Resigned, Andrei headed into the shop, the others following suit. But a final, wistful whisper of their shared dream from Petya, a simple murmur of “A picnic…” made every one of them pause in their tracks, glance up to the clear sky once more. But the lights of the shop flickered on, and they hurried inside, quick to set up for work before perspective customers arrived.

 

* * *

 

     The final customer of that morning ushered out, Sonya hung up the sign announcing their lunch break, locking the door for the next hour. A few purchases more than usual, now that the competing shop just a street over, Filipp’s, had closed for some time for renovations. Andrei hurried to Pierre’s station, the most dearest letter in the world clutched carefully in his hand. Pierre, clearly, did not understand the urgency of the situation, finding a perfectly neutral “Business is picking up again, isn’t it? Maybe we won’t have to replace Ms. Karagina after all.” Andrei had absolutely no patience for this. He placed the letter, _her_ letter on the counter, sliding it over right under Pierre’s nose. Pierre looked slightly bemused, and gestured airly towards it, an unspoken question. He groaned, tapping the address, more importantly, the name.

     “It’s Dear Friend, Pierre, she’s written again, the most beautiful letter.”

     “Did she include a photo this time?”

     “Well, no, but-”

     “Did you _ask_ her for a photo?”

     Andrei hesitated before shaking his head. “But, Pierre, just listen to this. Dear Friend-”

     “Are you going to meet, face to face?”

     Another hesitation.

     “A no, then.”

     “We will soon, probably. I mean, likely. I mean, just listen, would you?”

     Andrei inhaled carefully, gazing at the letter in a dreamy way, completely unlike himself as it seemed to be about these letters, distinct in the pink stationary they arrived on, some initials or name printed on them always scribbled out in the lowermost right corner. “Dear Friend: Yesterday morning, I ran through the rain to the post office. I had the key in my hand-- the key to box 1812. Trembling, I opened the door and reached inside. And, oh, my dear friend, there you were. I took you out, held you in my hand, and looked at you for a moment. Then I sat down, gently opened you, and read you.” Just from the glance you could manage at the page, it was clear there was much, much more written; clear but cramped handwriting filling both sides of the sheet fully, and Andrei likely would have read every word of it to Pierre had Bilibin not approached them at that moment.

     “Say, Bezukhov, spare me one of your stomach pills?” Pierre obediently retrieved the tin, something he carried simply to stay on Mr. Bilibin’s good side, seeing as he himself didn’t need them in the slightest degree. He wrapped an arm around Andrei, shaking him from side to side slightly too hard for comfort. “It’s all your fault I take these, you know? Every time you come for dinner, Mrs. Bilibin sees fit to fatten you up and has the cook make dumplings and thick gravy. You stay thin and I get acid reflux.” The three men chuckled in varying degrees of hardness and truthfulness. Bilibin didn’t lay off there either, jabbing Andrei in the side with his elbow jestfully. “Haven’t you had enough of bachelorhood, Bolkonsky? Spending too much time in those cabarets and dance halls you are, you ought to find a nice wife for yourself before they’re all gone.”

     Andrei shook his head, leaning slightly on Pierre’s counter. “With all due respect, I haven’t been to dance halls… in years, Mr. Bilibin.” But Bilibin clucked his tongue, like a nanny catching a child in a lie. “I know how you bachelors are. I was one myself, not so long ago. And what a bachelor.” He struck a manly pose, flexing muscles that may once have bulged under his sleeves but no longer, beginning to put on a bit of a show for the shop. In the background, Sonya must have put something on the gramophone, an old jazz bit that was lively and bright. “Young and strong! I was something to see in the old days, dancing with whatever girl I pleased, And such a dancer, too! Light on my feet, just on tempo, sweeping around the floor until dawn. God, what a man I was in days gone by.”

     By now, the whole shop was watching with some amusement at the spectacle laid out before them, Bilibin making his way back to Andrei and Pierre, a handkerchief mopping his brow. “And then I met Mrs. Bilibin and now I dance only with her. I’d wager you think that’s incredible.” Andrei attempted to protest but Bilibin heard nothing of it. “Switching partners every night- or even every other night is hardly necessary, you only think it is.” Taken by the music again, he began clapping to the rhythm, coercing Andrei to follow suit. Andrei just managed out, “The fact is I’m a terrible dancer- I can do it with my hands, it’s always been my feet that were the problem,” before Bilibin took him by the shoulders, dancing him around the main floor of the shop, counting out loudly the steps as they went about. Without any warning, he called for Ms. Alexandrovna, who immediately stepped in as his partner, instructing him softly, pretending to let him lead while he was not whatsoever. Pierre, from the sidelines, shouted incredibly helpful tips, such as “Relax!” and “Smile!”, even Dolokhov smiling around the cigarette between his lips, though more likely at his expense than in the spirit of the moment, and Petya cheering for him loudly.

     Then, all at once, the music slowed to a stop and they lurched to a stop, spinning away from each other, Sonya caught by the watchful Fedya and Andrei landing quite heavily on a customer stool at Pierre’s station. “You’ll realize it one day, my boy. And hopefully, make your mother happy soon after.” And with that, Bilibin retreated to his office, leaving his workers to their otherwise uneventful lunch.


	2. The Issue with the Genuine Leather Musical Cigarette Boxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilibin gets a new shipment of an unsellable product. Natasha really wants a job. Andrei really can't give her one.

           The end of the lunch break had been swirling with light teasing over Andrei’s impromptu dancing lesson, though a slightly possessive hand belong to a Mr. Dolokhov rested on Sonya’s knee, an after effect of their brief dance. That hour was always quite pleasant, albeit a tad dingy- the dark little back room filled with mindless chatter, the five of them squished around a pathetically tiny and creaky table. In all honesty, their coats on the rack had more room than they did. A single bare lightbulb hung overhead, and with Mr. Bilibin swearing off lunch with them due to Dolokhov’s cigarette smoke thick in the air, Andrei felt more at peace here than anywhere else in the parfumerie. To say he had a good relationship with his employer was an understatement, but after fifteen years faithfully working under him, he was beginning to expect more than assistant manager. But Bilibin was too clever for that, and somehow managed to sense exactly when he was on the edge of asking and redirected the conversation in a different direction entirely, snatching his chance from him.

           A sharp knock sounded at the door announcing the end of their lunch break, but no entry followed- Bilibin detested those damn cigarettes so much to barely step in the room at all. “Andrei and Dolokhov, come help me with these new arrivals.” This, of course, translated to “Carry in boxes while I direct you.” Without much choice, the two men got up, carrying in several cases of surprisingly light inventory. Setting out a sign announcing the mystery arrivals were going for ten and six, Bilibin unveiled the prize to the whole of the staff who had mostly trickled out of the break room to prepare for the afternoon shoppers. “A box?”, Andrei managed to ask, everyone looking thoroughly unimpressed despite Bilibin’s clear excitement over them. Then, with great pizzaz as if it may yet be the most mystical thing they’ve seen, he yanked open the lid of it, revealing an equally uneventful inside of the box, three dividers creating compartments. A moment later, an admittedly amiable tune floated into the air. This, however, did nothing to change the overall puzzled and impassive occupying their expressions.

           Petya, so brave and precocious, ventured the question they were all thinking: “What… is it?” Bilibin snapped the box closed, cutting the melody short and clutched the box quite protectively. “It’s a genuine leather musical cigarette box. Isn’t it nifty? Here, Andrei, try it.” He handed the man in question a box, and as instructed, he opened it, the music drifting out softly again. Andrei looked down at the box, then back up at his employer again. “Does it do anything else?” He sputtered at this, going quite red in face. “What do you mean, what else does it do? Why, it’s a genuine leather musical cigarette box, and for only ten and six! How’s that for a bargain?” “But who’ll buy it?”

           Miffed, Mr. Bilibin took the box back from him, shaking his head. “I see you’re in a difficult mood today. Let’s ask some of the others. Say, Dolokhov, don’t you think it’ll sell?” Fyodor, who seemed to apparate into existence just for this summoning at the express purpose of humiliating Andrei, replied with a bit of a charming smile on his face, “But of course they will. In fact, I’d go so far as to say they’ll make music lovers out of cigarette smokers and cigarette smokers out of music lovers.” Bilibin, oblivious to the false flattery, turned back to Andrei with a satisfied smile. “See? That’s the sort of response I know it will get.” The rest of the shop shuffled forward with their compliments, Bezukhov’s lasting so long to make everyone slightly uncomfortable.

           At the end of it, Bilibin, so clearly inflated by everyone’s approval of his fantastical boxes, stuck out a hand to Andrei for him to shake. Upon only a look of confusion, he explained, “A bet. I’ll bet you ten and six”, the number matching the price of the item naturally, “that we’ll sell the first of these boxes within an hour. No more, no less.” He was rather indisposed to this idea- mainly by the fact he was almost tripped into it without knowing the restraints of it. Andrei backed off, with only a “I don’t want to take your money,” but Bilibin was relentless. “Getting nervous, are you?” Now, obviously, with his honor on the line, Andrei shook the man’s hand. “It’s a bet.”

           With that, Sonya opened shop, unlocking the door and flipping the sign, lifting the curtains from the window displays. One thing, perhaps, Andrei forgot to consider was that while he couldn’t downsell any item in the store, anyone could and should upsell any product they possibly could, and God bless Mr. Bilibin for trying to do as much as hard as he could. The first customer he could find not being serviced at a counter, he presented the box as if it was Jesus fresh from the cross. Uninterested, she hardly looked up from her shopping list, only to acknowledge Bilibin’s presence. “I’d like a large tube of your Mona Lisa cold cream.”

           Bilibin, undeterred, raised the box to her ear, opening it slightly to allow the music to flow out. “A cold cream, certainly, madam. Isn’t this the most lovely melody?” She hardly blinked, shutting the box herself. “Is the seven and four your largest size or do you have a larger?” 

           “Oh, well, we also have a nine and six.”

           “I’d like to see it, please.”

           “Of course, madam, but this is, in fact, a genuine leather musical-”

           Effectively cutting him off by snapping closed her little book, the customer tucked it into her skirt pocket, looking at Bilibin quite blankly. “Do you carry Flowers of Spring in the one ounce bottle?” A bit deflated, he tucked the box under his arm, leading the lady to an empty counter. “The one ounce bottle? Of course- your customer, Mr. Bezukhov.”

           Andrei watched this procession repeat itself ceaselessly for the better part of half an hour before Bilibin threw the towel in for his intervention, retreating upstairs to his office. Just a moment after, a young, rather nervous looking woman entered, peering about the shop with bright eyes. Assuming she was a prospective customer, he stepped out from behind his counter, spinning the chair in front towards her, an invitation. She didn’t notice. Seeing as much, he stepped towards her, an arm directing her attention to the open seat. “Good day, madam, may I assist you at this counter here?” 

           Her attention caught, the woman’s eyes widened, and a peculiar expression crossed her face. “No. I mean, yes. I mean-” Andrei, having dealt with many a customer like her before, steered her onto the stool returning to behind his counter. However, she immediately leapt to her feet and followed him behind it. Not exactly normal shopping behavior, but it would do to have another customer. He began pulling things from the display, placing them in front of her to view.

           “We have a complete stock of perfumes, soaps, shampoos-”

           “No-”

            "Bath oils, bath salts-”

           “No!”

           “Cold creams, face creams, nail polishes-”

           “Really-”

           “Brushes! Hard, soft, medium-”

           “I must-”

           “Toilet water: there’s a special, this week only, on Roses of Italy. I’ll get a sample for you.”

           He stepped away to retrieve one from a nearby shelf, oblivious to the perplexed and frustrated customer by his counter. Just then, Bezukhov’s customer, packages in hand, went to leave, the overhead bell tinkling charmingly. The four employees on the floor- Sonya, Dolokhov, Andrei and Pierre- said some form of the mandated goodbye- “Thank you madam, please call again, won’t you?” Done, Andrei turned back to the lady, atomizer in hand. Laying his hand flat on the counter, he offered, “Here, let me spray some on your wrist.” But instead the woman clutched her hand to her chest, a blatant refusal. “No.”

           Moderately flabbergasted, Andrei pulled his head back, looking at her with surprise. “No?” She shook her head again. “No. Actually, you see, I’m not going to buy anything. Not today, at least.” He arched an eyebrow. “Then may I ask what your business is here today, madam?” A tint of pink touched her face at that. “I think I ought to speak with Mr. Bilibin about that. Is he here today?” “He’s in his office.” “Could I speak with him please?” She set down her pocketbook on the counter, clearly intending to stay a while. How wonderful. “He’s quite busy these days. Perhaps I could assist you.” The woman shook her head even more so now, her loose dark hair bouncing wildly about her face. “I don’t think so. I’ll just wait. Really, I don’t mind.”

           Locating a chair pressed against the back wall, she picked up her things and went to sit down in it, ankles crossed demurely. Resisting the urge to either roll his eyes or escort her out, Andrei turned to look at the lady, who was now rifling through her purse in an idle manner. “May I ask the nature of your business with Mr. Bilibin?” She shut it, looking up at him. “I think I’d rather speak to him personally about it.” The slightest bit of a sigh escaped him at this before he could fully catch himself. “Very well. Your name, then?” She sat up at this, shoulders pushed back and chin tilted up. “Rostova. Natasha Rostova.”

           He forced a smile at her, something he’d never been particularly good at. “Very well then, Miss Rostova. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Andrei had barely taken a step in the direction of Bilibin’s office before she spoke up again. “Oh, just one more thing! Mrs. Karagina, who used to work here but left because of her baby, she hasn’t been replaced yet, has she?” 

           At these very words, Andrei’s heart sunk to the pit of his stomach, cold running down the length of his spine that made every hair on him stand straight. He spun slowly to face her, trepidation spelled out in his eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a job, would you, Miss Rostova?” Apparently unable to read his expression, she smiled wide, showing all her teeth. “Why, yes, I suppose you could call it that.” If she hadn’t noticed his face before, she certainly noticed the utter devastation on it now, causing her to stand up to prove her cause.

           “I’m a very good salesgirl, Mr. … well, you never told me your name, but I am. Really! Very good! And I know the parfumerie industry inside and out- I worked at Filipp’s for five years, five years and eight months, and then some. And they were always very satisfied with my work, why, I have a letter from Mr. Filipp himself. I know it’s here somewhere, just a second.” Miss Rostova began leafing through her pocketbook once more, certain of herself, as Andrei began to try to escort her out the door. She stubbornly refused to move. “It says: Miss Rostova is honest, dependable, dedicated-” She looked up, staring Andrei dead in the eyes to repeat, “Dedicated.”, before continuing to search through her pocketbook. “It’s somewhere here.”

           Returning to repeating her letter of recommendation, Natasha said, “‘She also has an abundance of those qualities which go toward making a superior saleswoman, and I highly recommend her. Signed: Ivan Filipp.” Her eyes lit up, seeming to remember something all at once and she reached into the inside of her dress collar, retrieving a small square of paper and holding it out for him, ignoring his flinch at her uncouth behavior. “There you are.” Gingerly, Andrei returned her hand to her side, taking her by the arm to move her out. “Well, I’m sure it’s just as you said, but unfortunately we are not planning to replace Mrs. Karagina at the moment. If you’d like to leave your name-” She cut in, a color of offense in her voice as he realized too late he’d already gotten her name: “Rostova, Natasha Rostova, I’ve told you as much.” “-Then, if anything should come up-” 

           “I’d like to speak with Mr. Bilibin, please.” She stopped dead in her tracks, arms stiff at her sides. Inside, Andrei heaved a great sigh, but to Natasha, he only pursed his lips in discomfort. “I’m afraid that if it’s only about a job…” Her hands came up in tight balls, a physical plea. “Please.” He shook his head, his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, but it simply cannot be done.” But of course, this had to be the very moment Bilibin passed by, just within earshot, immediately wheeling around to stand between Andrei and Natasha. “What can’t be done? At Bilibin’s, anything is possible.” This was directed to him, but he quickly looked toward Miss Rostova. “Perhaps I can assist you, madam.”

           From behind him, Andrei flatly stated, “She wants a job.” He didn’t even have to look at his face to know it had gone absolutely white. Natasha jumped before he could say anything, restarting her spiel. “I know the parfumerie industry inside and out- I worked at Filipp’s for five years, five years and-” Bilibin began to walk away, but she persisted, following after him. “-And eight months, and I have a letter from Mr. Filipp himself!” He threw up his hands. “I’m sorry, my dear, but it’s out of the question.” Natasha began to wave the letter at him. “I’m honest-  dedicated- dependable.” He threw a disappointed look back his way. “Really, Andrei, can’t you handle these things by yourself?” She took no notice of this, unable to stop herself. “I’m a very good salesgirl!” Bilibin pushed her letter away from his face, looking her deeply in the eyes. “I truly am sorry. Now if you’ll excuse me.” 

           He began to ascend the stairs to his office, leaving her cold on the shop floor, her mantra trailing off pitifully. “I am, really, I am…” A customer, an actual customer, had begun to take a disdained interest in the musical cigarette boxes piled high on their little table. Rostova, seeing her chance, tore off her hat, pressed it to Andrei’s chest, and approached her before he could stop her. By now, all the employees of the shop began to watch her with a concerned curiosity. Composed in a neutral but warm expression, she smiled at the woman, gesturing to the boxes. “Aren’t these just… marvelous boxes? And only for…” She paused to read the sign before picking up again almost seamlessly, “Ten and six!” Unimpressed, the woman looked her up and down, then back to the boxes. “What are they for?” Natasha blinked in surprise, realizing quite quickly she hadn’t the slightest clue, but took a leap. “Candy.”

           In the background, Dolokhov muffled a laugh at her answer in a cough.

           With raised eyebrows so high they threatened to disappear into her hairline, the customer regarded this answer. “Candy.” Running with it, Natasha nodded, almost on the edge of frantic. “Why, of course, madam, it’s the latest thing. And just look at the workmanship…” And now for the kicker. She opened the box to show it off before nearly dropping the thing in surprise at the melody that flows out of it, though quickly recovering her cool. Now Dolokhov was no longer the only one stifling a chuckle. The woman remained skeptical. “A musical candy box.” Now improvising wildly, she switched the box closer to the woman, nodding once more. “Why certainly, madam. It combines the three elements of good taste: attractive to the eye, pleasant to the ear and- and functional.” The lady, almost beginning to buy it, tilted her head. “Functional? How?”

           It was clear to even Natasha then that she was too deep to back out now, even with no answer in reach. “How,” she repeated dumbly. “Well, let me tell you.” There was a thick silence between them for just a tad too long and the woman began to move to walk away with what she had already purchased. But Miss Rostova, eyes bright, stepped in her way. “These boxes have been a lifesaver to many a woman with a tendency to overeat. And don’t we all?” Her eyes flickered about the shop, landing on the gramophone Sonya had left out from lunch. “We’ll be at home, listening to a new symphony, or reading a good book, and without even thinking about it, our hand slips right into the candy box.”

           She closed the box, holding it delicately between her hands as if it may be the most precious thing in the world, having the entire shop’s rapt attention. “Carelessly, we eat sweet after sweet, while knowing too well where that will lead. So the makers of this here box designed it with women like us in mind.” Natasha gestured back and forth between them as if there was some comparison to draw between her trim, petit figure and the rather heavyset woman beside her. Slowly, her hands opened the lid, allowing the music to softly creep out of the box. “When it’s opening, the tune plays, like it’s disapproving of our poor behavior. And, in a way, when it sings in your ear to warn you against taking another candy, it’s a little like the voice of God.” Miss Rostova held the box out to the woman, a gentle smile curving up her lips. The woman practically snatched it out of her hands with a joyous cry of “I’ll take it!”

           Hardly able to contain her happiness, her eyes curled up at the corners in an overwhelmed feeling of accomplishment. “Thank you, madam!" Dolokhov, stepping into intercept for his customer once more, giving a slightly impressed glance to Rostova and directed the woman towards the exit. “Your bill, madam.” Escorting her to Sonya’s desk, he placed the package in front of her. “That will be three and eight for the large jar of face cream, and ten and six for the box.” Mr. Bilibin, striding down from his perch on the little balcony in front of his office, exuberantly shook Natasha’s hand, practically shaking her whole frame with the force of it. “You’re hired, Miss…?” With a bright gleam in her eyes, she practically burst out, “Rostova, Natasha Rostova.”

           Giving her poor hand one more firm shake, Bilibin confirmed her appointment. “Miss Rostova, welcome to Bilibin’s. These are your associates, Ms. Alexandrovna, Mr. Dolokhov, Mr. Bezukhov and Mr. Bolkonsky, whom you’ve already meet. And our delivery boy should be arriving any minute to pick up his next set of packages, so you’ll meet him then.” And, as it so happened, Petya had just wandered in, freezing on the spot when he saw their crowded clump in the middle of the floor. For a moment, Natasha seemed stunned before her eyes narrowed in an unexplained annoyance. “Ah, there he is. Miss Rostova, meet-” “Petya. I know him.” Much to everyone’s confusion, she crossed the space, hitting him on the arm lightly. “You told us you were tutoring during the summer. A delivery boy, really?” Before anyone could ask a question, even get out a word, Petya turned to the rest of the group, shrunk into himself slightly. “Miss Rostova… is my sister.”

           Almost instantly, a wave of realization washed over the rest of them- the resemblance between the two was almost glaring once it was pointed out. They had the same deeply set eyes and unruly curled hair, startlingly dark against their fair pallor, the same upturned nose matching their faces. They were practically built in the same lean format, albeit Petya’s lanky frame stood at least half a foot above Natasha. “He forgot to mention he had been lying to the rest of us about where he has been nearly every day for the last three months.” “Eight, actually.” “Excuse me?”

           As the siblings turned to bicker with each other, Bilbin looked to Andrei, a merry twinkle in his eye. “Now, seeing as there’s still a quarter of the hour left, Mr. Bolkonsky, I believe you owe me something?” Andrei tore his eyes away from the spectacle, irritation curling his upper lip at the sight, before sighing and with some regret shelling out the money of their bet, placing it in Bilibin’s waiting palm. He tucked it into his coat pocket, clearing his throat loud enough to interrupt the Rostov’s having at it. “Miss Rostova, if you’ll join me in my office, there are some details to discuss.” With that, Bilibin exited up to his station. Natasha whispered something to Petya that made his face blanch, before starting towards the stairs to where she was expected.

           Instead of going right up, however, she stopped in front of Andrei, looking up at him with a satisfied smile. “I suppose it simply  _ could  _ be done, couldn’t it? You just didn’t try hard enough. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Bolkonsky.” He gave her a cold smile, devoid of any warmth or joy. “And I you, Miss Rahstova.” Something in her expression twisted in anger, and she swiftly turned, disappearing up the stairs to Bilibin’s office. Andrei didn’t have to wonder if he would have an issue with this girl. He knew it.

            Well, he’d certainly have something to write to Dear Friend this week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the long wait for the second installment.... hopefully the fact that its a solid 1.5k longer than the first chapter should make up for it. our favorite lady has entered the cast! i thought it was appropriate that she doesnt show up until the second chapter seeing that amalia doesnt enter until about 20 minutes into the musical. also, in the tags i did warn you she's rather bratty at the beginning. i also couldn't resist the temptation of keeping natasha and petya siblings, theyre just too cute. it also doesnt actually affect the story seeing that petya is kinda just a bonus lil lad that i love and cant exclude for the life of me. i'd also just like to mention i'm a junior so i'm supremely busy, so this might be a very slowly uploaded project. sorry! believe me, i wish i could change that too. a big shout out to @dolokhovtheassassin on ig for betaing this because im dumb and she's saving you from endless run on sentences and bad grammar. also, if you wanna get in touch with me, i'm available on ig as @alingeringvoid (writing) and @singingstarchild (singing), or tumblr as truufan, though i do use instagram much more frequently. enjoy, and remember, there's nothing i love and appreciate more than kudos and commas!


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